


Any Day But Today

by ratherastory



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s03e11 Mystery Spot, Gen, Hallucifer, Hurt/Comfort, Mystery Spot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 09:41:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2846456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ratherastory/pseuds/ratherastory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"You know what I miss? I miss those ten years of playing <i>Mystery Spot</i>," Lucifer says wistfully.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Any Day But Today

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in Season 7, somewhere between _Out With the Old_ and _The Born Again Identity_. I had to take a few liberties with the timeline, stretching the time between the former and the latter by about a week or so, to accommodate the story’s needs. Since the timeline in the show is vague during that time, I felt it wasn't too big of a stretch, all things considered.
> 
> For the choice of year I have kept as close to the official Show dates as possible, even though the discrepancy in dates kind of makes me break out in hives. This means that dates are set in 2012 rather than 2013 as logic would dictate. The show doesn't acknowledge the “missing year” in which Dean lived with Lisa and Ben and Sam trotted around the US with no soul, so I'm just going with it for the purposes of this story. Apologies to anyone who, like me, starts twitching when timelines get out of hand like this.
> 
> I also owe a million thanks and chocolate and possibly my firstborn child to my intrepid beta rainylemons, who held my hand and put up with ten billion text messages and then corrected the hell out of my prose. All glory to her, and all remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> I hope my recipient likes it, if she ever gets around to reading it.

_I never meant to be so bad to you  
One thing I said that I would never do…_

"Rise and shine, Sammy!"

Sam is on his feet before his eyes are even open, almost knocks the digital clock radio off his night stand in his haste to shut it off. He hits the 'off' button, hands shaking, and the song keeps playing.

_One look from you and I would fall from grace  
And that would wipe this smile right from my face..._

"Shit!" He flicks the power button, watches as the luminous display fades to black, and the song keeps playing. _It was the heat of the moment…_ It keeps playing right up until he yanks the power cord from the wall with a vicious twist of his hand that almost snaps the cord in two. The power outlet spits out a small shower of blue sparks, and everything goes quiet.

"Aw, don’t be like that," Lucifer is leaning in the doorway to the dank little motel bathroom, a smirk playing on his lips. Sam can hear water running from inside, where Dean must be taking a shower. "You love that song, and you know it!"

"Fuck off!" he snarls, digging his thumb into the palm of his hand, but Lucifer stays right where he is.

"You got some sort of vendetta against clock radios I should know about? Or the weather guy? He announced 65 degrees and sunny, not sure why that would piss you off."

Sam blinks, vision swimming as the image of Lucifer superimposes itself onto the body of his brother. He blinks again, and Lucifer disappears entirely. Dean’s got a towel that’s way too small wrapped precariously around his hips, hair dripping onto his shoulders, and though his tone is light, his expression is, as usual, worried.

"What?" Sam asks irritably. He brings up a hand to rub at his eyes, suddenly aware of a headache beginning to throb just behind his forehead.

"Seriously, you okay?"

He shrugs. "I got some sleep, at least. That’s something."

Dean purses his lips, but says nothing. He heads back into the bathroom, and Sam has to keep himself from running after him, from having to make sure that he’s not going to electrocute himself, or smash open his skull on the tub. He presses the heel of his hands into both eyes as hard as he can to banish the sudden image of blood spattering against aqua coloured tile. _The motel bathroom doesn’t even look the same_ , he reminds himself. He checks his phone anyway, and breathes a sigh of relief when the display pops up: _Friday, March 17th, 2012._

A moment later he hears the _tink_ of Dean’s razor against the side of the sink, and the sound of shaving foam spurting from the can. He puts the clock radio back onto the night table, plugs it in again, and ignores the way it flashes a resentful _12:00-12:00-12:00_ at him.

Someone else can damned well reset the clock.

~*~

Sam’s getting sick. Twenty-eight years of living with his kid brother (minus four at Stanford, minus however many decades or centuries in Hell, whatever) means Dean knows the signs, sometimes even before Sam himself figures it out. It’s harder to tell these days, because what with Lucifer having a party 24/7 in his brother’s head, Sam always looks like warmed-over crap.

The fact that he slept at all is pretty telling. Lucifer—or, more precisely, the part of Sam’s mind that’s not coping with a hundred years spent in the Cage—has ensured that he hasn’t had a decent night’s sleep in well over a week. Right up until last night, anyway, when Dean watched until he could be sure Sam was asleep, his breathing even and soft, though the movement of his eyes behind his lids spoke volumes about how restful that sleep actually was.

"Next stop, Indiana!" he declares with a cheerfulness he doesn’t feel. "Get your butt in gear, Sammy!"

At least there’s room in the pick-up for Sam to stretch out a bit. Neither one of them has said anything out loud, but Dean knows that, like him, Sam must feel the Impala’s absence like the ache of a missing limb. She’s under a tarp now, waiting for her moment, and in the meantime all these other cars just feel wrong, somehow.

Sam doesn’t bother correcting him about the nickname—Dean doesn’t know when he stopped doing that, but he suspects it was right after he came back from Hell—he just half-collapses into the passenger seat closes his eyes as if the light pains him. It probably does, by the looks of things. There are already hectic spots of colour in his cheeks, which means he’s starting to run a fever. Of course, being Sam, he's going to pretend he's fine until Hell freezes over, no matter what anyone else says. So Dean shrugs, turns the key in the ignition, and finds the on-ramp to the nearest highway. Eventually Sam will come around, and they'll deal with this newest problem then. Until then, Dean is determined to hold his tongue and not badger his brother, no matter how much he wants to.

He’s pretty proud of himself for lasting a full two hours with the music on low and Sam twitching fitfully in the seat next to him. It’s obvious he’s not asleep, in spite of his best attempts to fake it. He’s already startled twice, which means Lucifer has set up shop in his head again, and for all Dean knows he might have a brass band going in there, or maybe fireworks or bombs or whatever.

"You feeling okay?"

"No." Sam hasn’t even opened his eyes. "It’s just a headache."

"We’ve got Tylenol and Advil in the med kit, if you want to stop."

Sam shrugs. "Med kit's at the back of the truck. It’ll keep until we stop for lunch."

"You sure?"

Whatever else might be happening, Dean isn’t thrilled at this new, resigned version of Sam, who seems to think that, whatever’s happening to him, it’s all for the best or some bullshit like that. Ever since he, in his own words, "let Lucifer in," it’s like a switch got flipped in his head and he decided to just stop fighting it. As horrifying as it was to see him constantly worrying at that scar on his hand, Dean thinks it might be worse to see his hands lying folded and limp in his lap, like there’s no point in even trying to distinguish reality from hallucination anymore. Not for the first time, Dean is tempted to give him a solid punch, just to remind him what reality truly feels like, but he’s pretty sure it wouldn’t accomplish much beyond making Sam pissed off with him.

Sam turns his head a fraction of an inch and cracks open an eye. "Yeah, I’m sure."

~*~

"So, on a scale from mild cold to full-blown SARS, how sick are you?" Dean asks, once they’ve found a corner booth in the smallest roadside diner they could find. Very little danger of Leviathans finding them in this dingy little place, at least.

Sam sighs. It’s one of those things he’s gotten used to but never grown to like, how easily Dean can read him on some things. Then again, he hasn’t been making an effort to disguise that he feels like shit these days, so maybe it’s not surprising.

He shrugs before answering. "Honestly? I’m not sure. I can’t tell how much of this is just due to sleep deprivation."

It’s not entirely a lie. He can’t remember the last time his head didn’t hurt, but he can definitely tell that this is more than just a headache and lack of sleep. He raided the first aid kit for the Tylenol the moment they stopped the car, but it’s not doing much to stave off the chills that have been coming and going at irregular but increasingly frequent intervals since they first got in the car.

"Sleep dep doesn’t cause fever," Dean says curtly, and Sam can only shrug again.

"I know that."

"So quit acting like you don’t. Also, you don’t get a pass on eating just because you’re sick."

Sam rolls his eyes. "Hen."

Dean winks exaggeratedly at him, then leans back in his seat and makes a point of examining the picture menu posted above the diner counter.

"I don’t know about you, but I’m thinking they must have a special that involves pork here."

"Tuesday! Pig ‘n a poke!" Lucifer pipes up from beside Dean, and Sam starts violently in spite of himself. He’s wearing a green sweater and thick black-rimmed glasses, making a show of examining a menu Sam is sure wasn’t on the table a few moments ago. Sam feels his cheeks grow warm, ducks his head so he won’t have to look at Dean and see the expression on his face.

"You boys ready?"

Sam’s mouth has gone dry, and he shuts his eyes before he can turn and see Doris standing there, poised to take Dean’s order. It’s not her, he reminds himself. It can’t be her. It’s not real.

"We’re going to need another minute, sweetheart," Dean tells the waitress. "I can’t make up my mind. What’s your special today?"

"Shepherd’s pie."

"Fantastic. I’ll start with a Blue Ribbon, and Sam’ll have a coffee.”

“All righty! I’ll give you another few minutes to decide while I get your drinks."

The waitress smiles at them. She’s young, redheaded with a smattering of freckles over her nose. Her nametag reads 'Molly.'

"Aw, she’s adorable!" Lucifer coos, and Sam squeezes his eyes shut again. "Bet you anything she’s not the type to drop the hot sauce."

"Shut up," Sam mutters under his breath, but if Lucifer can hear him, then so can Dean.

"You need us to leave?"

"No, I’ll be fine," he lies through clenched teeth.

"Such a liar, Sammy," Lucifer chides him, clucking his tongue. "Anyway, I thought this would be fun? Just like old times, back before everything went to Hell. Or should I say _everyone_?" he leers, and Sam jams his thumb into his palm again. Lucifer sniggers and doesn’t budge from his seat.

"Seriously, if you’re freaking out, we can go."

"I’m not freaking out!" he snaps, and Dean recoils. Sighing, Sam wipes a hand over his face. "I’m sorry. It’s fine, he’s just being a shithead. Let’s just eat, okay?"

"Okay, then."

Sam orders the special, just to be perverse, but he barely tastes it when it does come, and after he’s finished less than a quarter of it he feels his stomach begin to churn unpleasantly. He looks up in time to see Lucifer tucking heartily into a portion of shepherd’s pie that the waitress never delivered to the table. Lucifer grins, then opens his mouth to show him the half-chewed contents, and Sam resolutely doesn’t flinch away. Dean doesn’t miss when he puts down his fork and doesn’t pick it up again, though.

"You gotta eat more than that, Sammy. Big ox like you can’t live on three bites of shepherd's pie and half a cup of coffee."

"Yeah… it’s not sitting well."

"Give it a few more bites," Dean coaxes, "and we’ll hit the road. We can stop early, too. Get some shut-eye while we can."

It’s a peace offering, and Sam is perfectly happy to take it. He lets Dean settle the bill a few minutes later, leaves the remains of his shepherd’s pie untouched on the table.

“Drive safely now, Mr. Pickett!”

Sam whirls to face the cashier, blood roaring in his ears. “What?”

She steps back, visibly startled. "I said, have a safe trip."

He feels all the air leave his lungs in a rush. "Oh, right. Sorry. I mean, thank you."

Dean yanks on his elbow, and Sam lets himself be steered toward the car and ushered inside like a kid, too rattled to care. He’s cold again, but he can feel sweat trickling along his spine and making his shirt cling to his back. He leans back in the front seat of the car and closes his eyes, willing away the throbbing pain.

“Can we listen to music?” Lucifer asks from the back seat. "I don’t know about you, but I for one could listen to Asia forever!"

Sam shivers.

"You know what I miss? I miss those ten years of playing _Mystery Spot_ ," Lucifer says wistfully. Sam doesn’t open his eyes, but he can picture him carefully examining his fingernails, expression deliberately casual. "I think that was my favourite. Good times, am I right?"

Sam coughs, tries not to answer and fails. "You promised you wouldn’t!"

Dean glances over at him, startled. "Wouldn’t what, Sammy?"

"Not you," he shakes his head. He made an error in judgment, but he doesn’t want Dean to find out about that. Dean’s carrying enough on his shoulders without adding that to his burdens.

"Aw, so considerate of your brother’s feelings, Sammy," Lucifer croons in his ear, breath hot on the nape of Sam’s neck.

Sam ignores him, but he can feel the hairs stand up on the nape of his neck. He slides down a fraction of an inch in his seat, exhaustion stealing over him by inches. He wonders if he’s been dreaming the whole time, if maybe he just fell asleep in the car and none of it is real at all. He considers pressing against the scar on his hand and decides against it, because it doesn’t work anymore, and every failed attempt only serves to make him feel crazier.

Dean has the radio on, turned to a local rock station but playing so quietly that Sam can’t make out what song he’s listening to. He's tempted to turn off the radio altogether, to deny Lucifer even that small victory, but Dean is mouthing the words to himself as he drives. Dean deserves a few hours of peace anyway, without having to worry about Sam or anything else. So Sam leaves the radio alone, sliding down a little in his seat in a vain attempt to get more comfortable.

"Don’t you want him to know that that’s what broke you, in the end?" Lucifer breaks in, startling him. "I spent decades figuring out that physical torture wouldn’t work, not right away. You figured you deserved it, ridiculous martyr that you are. So boring," he fakes a yawn for emphasis.

Sam shifts in his seat and bites his tongue, eyes still closed. If he tells himself he’s dreaming, maybe that will make it true.

"I did promise I wouldn’t play _Mystery Spot_ with you anymore, didn’t I? The only thing worse than watching your brother die over and over is living without him," Lucifer continues.

"But as I recall, my promise was delivered on condition that I could do whatever else I wanted to you, and you’d have to agree to it. Up here, you can’t deliver on your end of the bargain, can you? Which means our agreement is null and void."

He snaps his fingers, and the radio begins to blare:

_It was the heat of the moment_  
Telling me what your heart meant  
Heat of the moment shone in your eyes...  


~*~

Whatever Dean was expecting when Sam finally managed to doze off in the car a couple of hours ago, it wasn’t for him to wake up screaming.

He jerks the steering wheel out of sheer surprise, and nearly drives them directly into oncoming traffic before managing to course correct and pull over several dozen yards away, once the truck has stopped skidding.

"Jesus, Sam, what the hell?"

Sam, however, isn’t hearing him. He’s too busy frantically twisting the dial on the radio, swearing colourfully under his breath when whatever he’s trying to do doesn’t work. Hell, Dean didn’t know Sam even knew some of the words that are coming out of his mouth. Probably Lucifer taught him some choice new phrases. Whatever is going on, Sam’s obviously lost what tenuous control he had over the voices in his head, and there’s not much Dean can do about it in the middle of a deserted blacktop.

He switches off the ignition, though that doesn’t appear to stop Sam from still trying to fix the radio, then gets out and circles round the truck to pull open the passenger side door.

"Sam. Sam, come on, now!"

Sam still isn’t listening, or can’t hear him, or whatever, and it’s all Dean can do not to kick the truck in frustration. He leans in, puts a hand on Sam’s shoulder to at least try to pull him away from the damned radio, and frowns when he feels just how hot he is, even through layers of clothing.

"No wonder you’re out of your head," he mutters. He raises his voice again. "Sam! Come on, let’s get you checked out, okay? Come on, Sammy, leave the radio. Whatever it is, it’ll keep."

Mercifully Sam pauses, but he doesn’t look up and doesn’t move his hand from the dial. "What day is it?"

"What day? Hell if I know. Since when do we worry about dates, unless we’re figuring out full moon phases for werewolves? Hey, come on, now," he snaps his fingers, trying to get Sam’s attention, but Sam just shakes his head and starts fussing with the radio dials again.

"It can’t be right," he says. Dean can tell the comment isn’t directed at him. "It’s not right, I checked the date. It doesn’t play on Wednesdays. Are you sure you don’t know what day it is? I checked, and it was Friday, but it must have changed. He must have changed it."

"Okay, great, Sam, it’s Friday. I’m pretty sure, anyway. It’s Friday, nothing’s changed. Whatever you think is happening, it’s not real, you got it? It’s just you and me and this piece of shit truck on the side of the road. You hear me, Sam? The rest isn’t real!"

He leans in further and takes Sam’s hand firmly in his, the one he injured all those months ago, and makes a point of digging the tips of his fingers into the scar tissue there. Sam turns a wounded look on him, but he doesn’t resist or try to pull his hand away. If anything, Dean would swear he leans into his touch a little.

"I hate this song."

"There’s no music playing," Dean says tiredly. "You’ve got a fever, it’s just messing with you. I mean, more than usual. Hang on."

He finds the cooler at the back of the truck, rummages in it for a water bottle which he unscrews and hands to Sam.

"Drink slowly."

Sam nods and takes the bottle, then simply holds it like he’s got no idea what it’s for. Dean snorts, puts a hand under the bottle and tilts it in the general direction of Sam’s mouth.

"Dude, I realise that I bottle-fed you when you were a baby, but this is ridiculous. Drink your damned water."

"Right," Sam nods again. At least this time he manages a couple of sips before lowering the bottle to his lap again. "Is the music off?"

"Yeah, no music," Dean dangles the car keys meaningfully. "Anything you’re hearing is all in your head."

Sam shakes his head. "I don’t hear it now, but… I don’t know, it’s hard to tell sometimes. Fucking hate that song."

"Okay, fine, Jefferson Airplane aren't my favourites either. But that’s really not a good reason to nearly make me crash the car, dude. It's not like it was Bieber, or something."

"Sorry," Sam ducks his head and takes another sip of water. "I didn’t… are you okay?"

Dean decides he hates that tone, like Sam expects him to keel over at any second. "I’m fine, no thanks to you. You good, now?"

Sam shakes his head. "You shouldn’t drive, not now. It could be anything. We should stop, find somewhere safe."

"News flash, dude, I am not letting you drive."

"No!" Sam just about comes out of his seat, eyes wide and rolling in sudden near-panic. "No, you can’t! You can’t, it’s not safe, I haven’t found him and he could—it could be anything, and I can’t, I can’t do it again. We have to find him first, make it stop."

"Do what again? Find who? You’re not making any sense!"

Sam collapses back onto the seat, looking stricken. "Tuesday. I can make it stop, but we have to find him first. He was in the diner. Like every Tuesday."

"I don’t even know what that means, but it’s Friday, Sam. We don’t have to find anyone, except maybe Dick Roman, and right now we’re not even looking for him."

"It’s not Tuesday?"

"No."

"You're sure? I could have… I mean, I thought… it's just…"

"Sam, look at me," Dean puts his free hand on Sam's neck just where it joins his shoulder, and gives him a small shake. "I'm sure, okay? It isn't Tuesday."

Sam still doesn't look convinced. He's tense, shoulders hunched, legs gathered a little like he's ready to grab Dean and head for the nearest bunker for shelter, but Dean holds tight to his hand, fingers pressing down on fading scar tissue. He can feel when Sam lets go, just before he blows out a breath and slumps in his seat.

"Okay, if you're sure. I mean… no, yeah. Okay. Sorry."

Sam shouldn’t sound that relieved about a date, like somehow it means the difference between life and death. Dean knows that this is the moment when he should be trying for some sort of light-hearted comment, something that’ll reassure Sam, make him feel better, or maybe slightly less guilty about nearly sending them to an early(ish) grave, but he can’t find it in him.

"Quit apologising. Anyway, I’m calling it for the day, and probably the next couple of days too, since you’ve decided to become the Human Torch, there. Next motel I see, we’re holing up until further notice. Bad enough you see things that aren’t there as a matter of course, add fevers into the mix and you’ve got the ingredients for a perfect storm."

Sam blinks at him, then smiles slowly. "How many metaphors d’you mix in there? I counted three."

"Shut up, college boy. Delirious guys don’t get a say. Buckle your seat belt, drink your water, and don’t touch the damned radio."

"Yes, _sir_ ," Sam stresses the last word pretty ironically for someone with a fever high enough to cook an egg on his face. He leans back in his seat, though, and hangs onto his water bottle. He doesn’t touch his seat belt, but then neither of them tends to wear them anyway, so maybe that was a bit of overkill on Dean’s part. Maybe.

Dean supposes he shouldn’t be surprised when Sam starts mumbling under his breath again less than ten minutes later. It was too much to hope that the Lucifer who lives in Sam’s brain would leave him alone for more than that. At least he doesn’t freak out over the radio—which Dean purposefully left turned off anyway—or anything else for that matter. Dean can’t make out what he’s saying for the most part, and part of him is grateful for that.

Sam balks at the door to the motel room once they get there, and Dean, following close behind, almost breaks his nose colliding with his shoulder blade.

"Sam, what?"

Sam shakes his head, and Dean is reminded a little of a wet dog. "Nothing. I thought—nothing. Never mind."

Dean blows out an exasperated breath, puffing out his cheeks, but leaves it at that. Whatever Sam thought he saw, it’s not there. He chivvies Sam over to the bed closest to the wall, figuring that way he can at least keep him contained if he goes nuts during the night. If Sam has to go through him to get to the door, it at least means he’ll have a chance to keep him from doing anything too terrible.

Sam doesn’t argue with him. He doesn’t even hesitate when Dean orders him curtly to strip and lie down, and meekly swallows the ibuprofen Dean shoves at him. Dean presses a hand to his forehead, not that that’s going to tell him anything he doesn’t already know. There’s a small flutter of hope when Sam leans into his touch a little, eyes closing with something close to relief.

"What song was it, anyway?" It’s like he can’t help himself. Maybe he’s just a glutton for punishment.

Sam shrugs. "Asia."

~*~

_"Sam? Bobby again. Look, I’m worried about you…"_

It’s dark, but the voice pulls him right out of a half-remembered nightmare that begins to fade the moment Sam opens his eyes. Bobby’s been leaving messages like that for weeks now, but Sam doesn’t have time to talk to him. He sits up, scrubbing at his eyes, but he can’t bring the room into focus properly, not enough to be able to see the time. It doesn’t matter anyway. Whatever time it is, now that he’s up he should take the opportunity to do more research.

His knees buckle as he gets up, head throbbing with the movement. He can feel every fiber of the threadbare carpet under his bare feet as he staggers and catches himself against the bed with one hand. _Shit_ , he thinks. _Fucking terrible time to get sick._. The Trickster is out there, and the longer Sam takes to find him, the longer Dean’s going to be in Hell.

"Terrible, isn’t it? The thought of him suffering like that?"

Sam starts and nearly falls over. Lucifer is leaning against the wall in the corner of the room, arms folded over his chest, smirking at him. He’s in his usual guise as Nick, stained grey V-neck sweater and ratty blue jeans—Sam’s never quite worked out why Lucifer keeps appearing as this one guy, when he could be literally anyone in the world, including Sam himself. He forces himself to look away, squeezing his eyes shut.

It’s not Lucifer. It can’t be. He’s not here, and Sam has work to do. When he opens his eyes again, his heart leaps into his mouth, because his research is gone. Every notebook, every scrap of paper, all the maps he’s been painstakingly preparing for the past six months, everything has vanished. Behind him, he can hear the Trickster laughing. He whirls to face him.

"What did you do with it?"

The Trickster chuckles. "I didn’t do anything, Sam. I don’t know what you’re talking about!"

Sam flinches, because the voice is Dean’s. For a moment the Trickster’s face blurs, and his heart skips a beat, because he could swear it was Dean standing there. Hope flutters wildly in his chest, but Dean hasn’t been here in months, which means this is a trick.

"I’m not falling for that," he chokes on the words, because they both know how much he _wants_ it to be Dean. "Not again. You’re not him, stop using his face! You have no right!"

"Sammy, it’s me. Just… chill, okay? You’re sick, that’s all. Come on," the fake Dean reaches for him, but Sam jerks away before he can grab his hand.

"Don’t touch me, you son of a bitch!" he snarls. "You can get rid of all the work I did, but I won’t give up. I won’t let you take him from me!"

He turns back to the now empty wall, eyes stinging. Months of work, gone with no doubt a single snap of the Trickster’s fingers. He cuffs at his eyes, and starts rummaging through his duffel bag for the notes he knows he left in there. There will still be whatever he wrote on his laptop, everything he left in random drop spots along the way… unless the Trickster just made them all vanish too.

"What are you looking for, Sammy?"

He can’t bring himself to ignore Dean’s voice, not when it’s that gentle. Even if it’s not him, not really. He probably is sick, given how crappy he feels, but he wouldn't put it past the Trickster to use that against him too. He doesn't know if it's even possible to make him feel worse than he actually is, but it would be a clever trick to keep him from trying to do more work. The carpet feels like sandpaper against his bare knees, but he's found what he was looking for. He pulls out his laptop and blinks when the glare from the screen threatens to blind him.

"My notes. I had it all here, everything on the Trickster. I can bring you back—the real you, I mean. I just need to figure out how to trap him. I was close, I swear. Just a few more days… Fuck!" he wipes at his eyes again. "I was so close… there was a ritual, and," he stops, images blurring together in his mind. "I think maybe it was Bobby, but I don’t remember. I don’t remember. How could Bobby have been here? I haven’t seen him since you…"

"Hey, this is an even better game than _Mystery Spot_!" Lucifer crows from across the room. "Hey, Sammy, I wish I’d thought of this when we were still bunk buddies."

"Shut up! You’re not here!"

"Sure, I’m not. And that’s not Gabriel pretending to be Dean over there, either." Lucifer wiggles his fingers and contorts his face into a caricature of fear. "Ooh, it’s all in your head! Spooooooky! But are you sure? If you’re sure, then that’s Dean, and you’re going to hurt him. I don’t know about you, but that doesn’t sound good to me."

"Sam!" Dean’s voice interrupts Lucifer’s monologue. "Sam, listen to me. Listen to me, it’s just the fever talking right now. Whatever you’re hearing, whatever you’re seeing, it’s not real. There’s no research, you don’t need to look for anything. Please…"

Gabriel really is good at mimicking people, it seems. Sam can hear the desperation in Dean’s voice—it sounds as real as if Dean were standing right behind him. No. He shakes his head, trying to clear it. Not Gabriel, he reminds himself, the Trickster.

"But they’re the same, right?" he asks the question aloud, even though no one is going to answer.

"Who’s the same?"

"Shut up!" he snaps.

"Sammy…"

"No."

He turns away from the bright glare of the laptop to face the Trickster, and even though he knows it's not Dean, his stomach still twists at the sight of his brother's face. He takes a breath to steady himself, but he can't keep his voice from shaking.

"You can't stop me. I won't let you stop me. I have to get him back, and nothing you do is going to make me stop looking for a way, do you hear me?"

"You can't get him back. In fact, you shouldn't," Gabriel says somberly. Dean's face is twisted in false anguish, one hand stretched out toward him. "This game you and he play? It's twisted. You go around and around, sacrificing yourselves for each other, and be damned to the rest of the world and the consequences of your actions. You need to let him go."

Tears spring to his eyes. "You don't understand. It's my fault he's down there. I was meant to have a year, and it's not even close. It was meant to be me," he chokes down a sob, but when the next one wells up he can't quite hold it back. "I'm supposed to be dead, and instead it's him and I know what they're doing to him down there and I can't—I can't…"

"Sammy…"

Tears stream down his cheeks and he doesn't bother to scrub them away. "I can't do it, not again. You don't know, you didn't see what happened to me the last time—" it doesn't make any sense, because there was no last time, was there?

"Oh, but there was," Lucifer comes over to stand next to Dean, leaning over so it looks like he's whispering in Dean's ear. "You should have seen what happened to your Sammy when you were de-ead," he sing-songs. "Went completely off the rails."

"Don't talk to him!" Sam yells through his tears, and Dean flinches. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, please don't… I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I just—I can't do it again, I can't do it. I need to bring you back, you have to let me try. I was supposed to have more time. I can find a way, but you need to give me back the time you took. I was supposed to have more time…"

"Aw, Sammy…"

He's sobbing too hard to speak anymore, and this time when Dean comes toward him he doesn't try to pull away. It might be a trick, but he doesn't care. Dean clasps the back of his neck with one hand, pulls him in, and Sam lets himself go, lets Dean wrap his other arm around his shoulders. A moment later he feels Dean's grip loosen a little around his neck. He reaches down to take Sam's hand, fingers pressing tightly against the scar on his palm, and Lucifer disappears with a ripple of air like heat waves in the desert. Sam lets out an incredulous laugh.

"Oh, thank God, you're real," he breathes, and then everything goes dark.

~*~

"Fuck!"

It's not the first time and probably won't be the last, but being on the receiving end of all two hundred pounds of Sam when he loses consciousness is not something Dean expects he'll ever get used to. He manages to catch Sam by the armpits, staggers a little under the unexpected weight, and then manages to brace them both against the doorframe of the motel's tiny bathroom.

"Fuck!" he says again, fumbling for the light switch. He blinks against the sudden brightness of the neon light bouncing off the white ceramic and grey tile, and shifts his weight to prop Sam up a little better, pressing a hand to his forehead to feel the heat pouring off him. "Okay, Sammy, we're going to bring that fever down. I think we've had enough delirious raving for one lifetime, how 'bout you?"

Sam doesn't answer, but his eyelids are fluttering, which is a good sign. Dean pats his cheeks until he rouses a little more, and smiles encouragingly.

"That's it. Come on, now," he hauls Sam upright, drags him over to the tub and pulls the shower curtain closed. "Hang tight!"

Sam yells when Dean turns on the water, and Dean has to hold onto him as hard as he can to keep him from knocking them both over and possibly killing them both by braining them against the side of the tub. It's unpleasant—Dean's t-shirt and boxers soak through almost instantly and start clinging to him in uncomfortable places—but it's the only way he can think to get Sam's fever down quickly before his brain cooks in his head. The ice machine is too far away, and it would take too long to fill the tub with ice water anyway.

Sam's shivering, teeth chattering, and even though the water's tepid Dean finds he's feeling none too warm himself. A moment later Sam starts to shake harder, and Dean realizes he's crying again.

"Shit. Sam, Sam, it's okay, you're fine. Shh," he uses his free hand to smooth Sam's hair away from his face. "You're okay, you're fine. Come on, don't. Don't, Sammy," he begs, feeling like he might be close to tears himself. Fucking Sam. "Wake up, now, and we can get out of this stupid cold shower and go back to bed."

Sam chokes and coughs, but he's leaning into Dean's touch. It's hard to tell the difference between the shower water and the tears still spilling down his face, but at least he seems calmer now. It doesn't take much coaxing for him to open his eyes after that, and for the first time in what feels like forever, Dean feels himself break into a smile.

"Hey, there he is. Attaboy, Sammy. You with me?"

Sam nods, but the look on his face belies the gesture. "Dean?"

"In the flesh. Seriously, I need to know you've got your shit together before I let us out of here. You know where you are?"

"Um," Sam pulls his head back when his mouth threatens to fill with water. "Motel?"

"Score one for you. Do you know what day it is?"

Sam blinks at him. "Uh, no. Friday?"

Dean beams at him. "That's my boy! Okay, let's get you out of this stupid shower and get you dry. That's it, up you go…"

He shuts off the water, pulls the shower curtain back, and sits Sam down on the toilet before wrapping him in one of the threadbare motel towels. He grabs another towel and uses it to dry Sam's hair as best he can, not that it does much good.

"Remind me why I haven't chopped off your hair to make you look respectable yet?"

Sam coughs a little and rubs his nose with the back of his wrist. "You love me, and we're not respectable anyway."

Dean chuckles, shrugs, and takes a towel with him when he goes in search of dry clothes. He strips off his boxers and t-shirt, changes quickly, leaving the wet towel on the floor. By the time he gets back, Sam has listed against the wall, eyes shut again. A quick brush of fingers against the skin of his face confirms that the fever's still present, though considerably lower than before. He strips off Sam's t-shirt and boxers, coaxes him into dry clothes, and then hauls him back to his feet with a quiet groan.

"I am going to be feeling tonight for days. You could seriously stand to lose a few pounds, dude, even if it's all muscle."

Sam mumbles something that doesn't sound especially coherent, but he's still not yelling at imaginary people, so Dean figures he should just take the win. He pushes Sam onto his bed, and Sam submits quietly enough, right until Dean tries to go back to his own bed. The next thing he knows Sam has sat up again, catching his wrist in a vice grip.

"Don't leave me."

Dean laughs nervously. "Sam, come on. I'm just in the next bed."

Sam's eyes are wide enough to swallow his entire face. He doesn't relax his grip. "Don't leave me," he says again.

Dean sighs. "You're not a kid anymore, Sam. I'm not going to—oh, who am I kidding?"

He rolls his eyes, unsure if it's at Sam or at himself, and pulls back the bedclothes long enough to slip into the bed beside his brother. He can feel Sam settle almost immediately, curling up awkwardly until his head is pillowed on Dean's sternum so he can listen to his heart beating, just like when they were kids and there was nothing wrong with Sam except the flu, or a bad dream.

"I can't lose you again," Sam confides, so softly Dean almost doesn't hear him. "I won't make it the next time."

Dean sighs again. "I wish I knew what this was all about. How about if I promise not to go anywhere, will that help?"

"You break promises all the time. So do I. Done with promises."

Fair enough. Winchesters aren't good at promises anyway, especially not ones about life and death, and there's been too much of the latter and not much of the former in recent memory. He pets Sam's hair, figuring his brother's too out of it now to remember it later and give him a hard time for it. Sam just sighs contentedly, then reaches across him to lace their fingers together. Dean feels him shudder when the tips of his fingers brush against the soft scar tissue on Sam's palm.

"Think you can get some sleep, now?"

"Probably not."

"Try anyway."

There's no answer. Sam's breathing has slowed a little, although it's not really deep enough for sleep, but as far as Dean is concerned that's good enough for now.

He squeezes Sam's hand a little tighter, and simply holds on.


End file.
